


Convocation

by Terminallydepraved



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bondage, Come Swallowing, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, Groping, Hair-pulling, Identity Porn, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Spit Kink, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22687576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terminallydepraved/pseuds/Terminallydepraved
Summary: A rough hand grabbed him by the hair to drag his face closer. Roman loomed over Jason. A skull couldn’t smile but Jason swore that fucker wore a grin.Jason fought the impulse to close his eyes. His heart hammered in his chest like a drum.Bruce sure as shit didn’t give them training for situations like this.ie the fic where jason is tied to a chair and slade and roman really live up to their dubiously moral reputations.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Roman Sionis/Jason Todd, Roman Sionis/Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 27
Kudos: 263





	Convocation

**Author's Note:**

> i really wish we had more of slade and roman bickering together in under the red hood so i figured id right that wrong by making some really dubious content that also manages to be semi-canon compliant/plausible. takes place during UTRH post-that fight with roman's hired goons. an angry jason is a beautiful jason. please enjoy XD

Tied to a chair? Check.

Bag over the head? Check.

Bleeding and aching from multiple painful-but-non-threatening wounds?

Annoyingly enough, check. 

Jason inhaled shallowly and let it out even slower. It was as close as he could get to a sigh without giving away his recent jaunt into consciousness, and if there was one lesson he’d carried with him from his past life, it was that the moment you showed your hand to the enemy was the moment you sacrificed your chance for victory. 

_Or survival,_ he amended ruefully, testing the knots binding him the chair with slight, imperceptible tugs. Whoever had tied them had done a decent job. They were tight, firm, not giving in the slightest. A careful twist of the wrist told him that the rope was made out of something coarse and stiff. Even through his gloves he could tell that he’d be hard pressed to slip his hand free without taking most of his skin off in the process. Hell, he’d probably have to dislocate a thumb just to make it work. 

Nudging his feet told him a similar story. His ankles were bound to the legs of the chair just as tightly, and from the lack of creaking as he shifted, he could tell that the chair itself was sturdy. Probably metal. 

It certainly wasn’t the best circumstances he’d ever found himself in, but then again, at least he still woke up. Alive was better than dead, beaten better than maimed. In this line of work it was the small things that got you through the rough patches. Or beatings, in this case. 

But of course that begged the question as to _why_ he was still able to wake up at all. He would have thought any of the handful of enemies he’d made wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in his head the second they had him within range. Tied to a chair, bruised but still whole— It just didn’t make much sense. 

“You can quit playing possum, boy. I heard the change in your heartbeat the moment you woke up.”

 _Oh joy,_ Jason thought dispassionately. He recognized that voice. He recognized it almost too well. That would explain it, wouldn’t it? He hadn’t gotten grabbed by just anyone. He’d gotten grabbed by fucking Deathstroke. Slade Wilson. Assassin and mercenary extraordinaire. Wonderful. 

He supposed maybe this beat the alternative though. Batman had been at the fight too. 

“Did you kill him?” Jason asks, giving up the game of pretending to still be out. Kidnapping 101, taught to every Robin at one point or another. It fooled the dumb ones but never the likes of Slade. Still, Jason tested the ropes again. They remained firm, completely unyielding. 

“Would you care if I did?” The voice began to move, heavy footfalls echoing across a cement floor. Slade was doing it on purpose. He could move as silent as a panther if he wanted. This was for Jason’s benefit. A powerplay to know the man was near, that he was in control. “Seems to me the two of you don’t get along all that well.”

Jason read between the lines and guessed that Bruce was still alive. Probably pissed off royally, but no doubt still kicking. It left a bitter, conflicted taste in the back of his mouth, the relief the realization carried with it. “What can I say?” Something brushed over the hood above his head. Jason kept his eyes open even as he braced for it to be torn off. He didn’t have his helmet on, but they’d left him his domino. The white-out lenses would protect him from the light shift, help him adjust without losing awareness of his surroundings. “I’m not all that popular with many of you geezers,” he said carefully. “Might have something to do with how you all can’t keep up with me these days.”

Slade snorted. The sack came off and Jason quickly looked at the warehouse around him. They were down by the docks, clearly; the place was full of old netting and hooks, and now that the air wasn’t filtered through the sack, he could easily smell the stink of old fish and the salt coming in off the coast. Slade was standing just behind him, the orange of his suit just visible in Jason’s peripherals. “I must be doing something right then, boy,” he said, resting a heavy, warning hand on his shoulder, “since I’ve got you in this sorry state.”

“Yeah, well, five against one is hardly singing your praises,” Jason muttered, eyes forward and ears perked to the sound of conversation somewhere behind those crates near the rear exit. He couldn’t make out words but the tone was pretty clear. One guy yelling orders at the rest. “Let me guess,” he went on, tilting his head to meet Slade’s gaze. The man wasn’t wearing his mask. He looked older than Jason remembered, but not nearly enough given the time between them. Fucking supersoldiers. “You got paid to truss me up like a Thanksgiving turkey? Didn’t know you delivered _and_ gift-wrapped these days. Times are tough for everyone, huh?”

The voices grew louder. A door slammed. Jason’s eyes flicked towards the rear end of the warehouse. He swore internally at the familiar black-clad head of the figure peeking past the crates. Roman fucking Sionis. Why was he not surprised? 

“And you’re playing delivery boy to the Black Mask of all people?” Jason clicked his tongue, twisting his wrists against the ropes a little more furtively. “Standards, Deathstroke. I thought you had them.”

The blur of orange shifted, dipping lower. Jason stopped moving when the hand on his shoulder squeezed him tightly. “Be nice,” Slade whispered in his ear, too low for Roman to hear. “And be quiet.”

“Or what? You’ll spank me?” Jason snorted weakly. “Can’t say I’m into that kinda thing.”

It only took an instant for the hand on his shoulder to shift to his throat. Long, powerful fingers wrapped around tightly, making it more than clear just how little force Slade would have to employ to snap his neck like a fucking twig. “You really haven’t changed at all,” he mused, the rough tickle of his goatee rasping against Jason’s skin like sandpaper. “Still quipping away like it’d kill you to keep your thoughts to yourself.” 

Jason’s lips twitched. His heart ticked a little faster. “We meet before somewhere?” he asked, desperately fighting to stay in control even as the chair he sat on began to tip onto its back legs. The grip on his throat was firm, just about the only thing keeping him balanced and off the floor. His voice was strained when he went on, “Maybe you’ve got me mistaken for someone else. I don’t really get invited to the bad guy mixers.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re too young to drink with us,” Slade practically snorted, tilting Jason’s chin up to watch Roman begin his approach. _“Robin.”_

Jason’s body went cold. Sweat prickled his brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, the response automatic, damning. 

“You never forget your first,” Slade said with something like fondness in his voice. His lips touched Jason’s ear then, hot, damp, heavy, “or your second.” 

Shit. Shit, shit, _shit._

Jason desperately wished the bag had never left his head. Losing his vision felt like a fair trade for hiding his face from the probing eyes locked on him, searching for any sign of weakness, fear-induced or otherwise. 

“You must have gone senile, old man,” Jason heard himself say. “You’re not making any sense.”

Roman called out, “Who the fuck do you have in that chair, Wilson?!” from across the room. Jason tore his eyes from Slade and saw he’d nearly closed the distance between them. Fuck. His throat bobbed beneath Slade’s hand, swallowing harshly as he was lowered back onto the floor. 

“Try to behave, Robin,” Slade whispered, his hand leaving Jason’s throat. “You just might make it out of this alive yet.”

There was no time to ask him what he meant by that. Roman had reached them. He stood just a few feet away, clearly aiming to stay out of range should something happen— because things _always_ happened when one mask had another tied up like this. His arms were crossed and his foot was already tapping. “Well?” he snapped, his burning glare moving from Slade to Jason to Slade again. “Who the fuck is this supposed to be? You kidnap some brat from daycare?”

Slade rose to his full height in a slow, sinuous motion. He rested a heavy hand on the back of Jason’s chair. “This is the Red Hood,” he said easily. “In the flesh.”

“You’re telling me this snot-nosed punk is the one running my business into the ground?” Roman uncrossed his arms and took a cautious step forward, his voice so derisive that it didn’t matter that he couldn’t force a sneer onto his mask of a face. The point was already made. “I don’t fucking buy it. Where’s the proof? It’d be just like you circus freaks to throw some brat in armor just to earn a quick buck.”

Jason felt his lips curl away from his teeth. He opened his mouth to say something— and let out a low yelp as Slade grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked it, forcing his head to snap back until all he could see was the ceiling. 

“Take it from me,” Slade said in a low, even voice. “Age means little in this line of work. You’d be surprised how much trouble a snot-nosed brat can cause with the right training under his belt and a chip on his shoulder.”

Something burned in Jason at those words, offsetting the pain in his scalp as he sucked in a lungful of air and fought back the instinctive urge to thrash until he was free. Logic made it pretty damn clear that it wouldn’t get him far—at most it might earn him a few new bruises and a chunk of missing hair—but there was just something about how Slade spoke about him, like he fucking _got it,_ that made him want to prove him wrong. 

“You don’t know me, asshole,” Jason snarled, wishing gravity wasn’t against him so he could spit in Slade’s good eye. 

Slade looked away from Roman and gave him a withering frown. There was something so disturbingly similar to pity on his face that Jason seriously contemplated taking the beating just so he wouldn’t have to keep looking at it. But before he could Slade released his hair and dropped his head. Though, only for a moment. In the blink of an eye he had his hand wrapped around Jason’s throat instead. 

“Quiet now, boy,” the mercenary said in a dispassionate drawl against his ear. “The adults are talking.”

Jason stayed quiet; he didn’t have enough air entering his lungs to do otherwise. 

“Whether or not you believe this is Red Hood isn’t really my problem. I’m a professional, Sionis. I came through on my end,” Deathstroke—and it was Deathstroke talking now, not Slade, not someone who got it or even cared when the promise of a paycheck was on the table—said smoothly as he removed his face from Jason’s personal space, the textured surface of his gloves coaxing goosebumps to the surface of Jason’s skin. “At great personal risk, I might add. How many of my associates died in the process of taking him alive for you?” The hand tightened marginally around Jason’s throat. “In fact, I think I’m entitled to a little extra compensation.” 

A bead of sweat rolled down Jason’s temple. Swallowing just made the pressure feel all the tighter, but despite all of his training, he couldn’t seem to resist the impulse to do it anyway. Slade’s hand was so big. At first he thought he had just imagined it that way as a kid; he’d been four foot nothing back then, and Slade had seemed like a giant, larger than life the way Bruce had. But somehow, inexplicably, while Bruce now seemed human, man-sized and all too fallible, Slade seemed… 

His throat bobbed beneath that massive, bone-breaking hand. 

Slade seemed just as pants-pissingly big as he had back then. 

Roman didn’t bother hiding his snort. “Is that so?” His eyes were locked on Jason, scanning him up and down, taking in the armor, the domino, the cracked mess of his helmet over in the corner. If anything here was going to prove that he really was the Red Hood, it was that. Jason expected Roman to move towards it once he caught sight of it. He’d pick it up, look it over, see if it looked real enough to be what he hoped it was.

Jason hoped he would, prayed fervently for it to happen. He had that thing packed with so many explosives that it could blow him to kingdom come and back. All it would take was a press of a button. The detonator was tucked in an inner jacket pocket. If he dislocated his shoulder, he could manage it. 

“Let me get a closer look,” Roman said. 

Only instead of going for the helmet, he came for Jason instead. 

Fucking shit. 

Jason kept his gaze level, his face expressionless. Roman walked with a swagger in his step that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. A normal man wouldn’t walk like that. You’d have to be suicidal to go around with that much pomp in your step, like every single stride you made blessed the ground beneath your feet. Jason felt a scowl tug at his lips. Roman knew he was a cut above the rest when it came to power and intimidation, but when it really came down to it, he wasn’t some ‘roided up beast like Bane or a killing machine like Slade. He was just your typical mobster with a sadistic streak a mile long and had as close to a god complex a person could get without branding himself Jesus and blessing his minions’ daily bread. All his research had backed up the impression, and seeing it in person now didn’t make him second guess it for an instant. 

Jason didn’t have any misconceptions on what Roman could do to him at point-blank range. He’d done his research, and he’d done it well. He’d read all about how Roman Sionis came to power on the burnt, broken ruins of his father’s business, how he’d whipped Gotham’s underbelly into shape with cold, hard iron and a bullet to the brain for anyone who stood in his way. Roman’s deep-set, burning eyes stared at him with an almost manic sort of energy. This man was a predator. Like recognized like in that sense. All there was left to wonder was who stood above the other, the apex over tomorrow’s carrion.

When he came to a stop in front of Jason, crouching down to look at him properly, Jason could almost imagine the metallic scent of blood clinging to his expensive Italian suit. What remained of it at any rate. Roman had taken off his jacket, probably in anticipation of the delightful evening he had in store for him once he regained consciousness. The pristine white dress shirt beneath had been rolled up at the sleeves, exposing surprisingly powerful looking forearms to the open air. Jason found himself staring at that expanse of olive skin, cataloging the amount of hair on them, the shiny gold rolex strapped to his wrist, and then down to his thick, calloused fingers. He wore multiple rings. 

In the back of his mind, Jason made a few mental notes: they were all smooth edged, bruisers like brass knuckles, minimal chance of leaving behind traceable markings in the resulting skin trauma. 

Roman cocked his head to the side. “Something funny, punk?”

Jason tore his eyes away from those rings and belatedly realized he’d begun to smirk. “Plenty,” he said, voice dry. 

He just didn’t think it proper to comment on the fact that Roman Sionis apparently liked to work with his hands. 

“You going to share with the class?”

Jason narrowed his eyes and licked at his dry, split bottom lip. “Nah.” That really felt like a third date conversation, and he _so_ wanted to be a proper gentleman.

Roman twisted one of his rings around his thick middle finger. “Y’know, you’ve got a lot of balls for a guy who shot up my office from across the street.”

“I thought I was just some snot-nosed punk,” Jason said. “What makes you think I’m the guy you want?”

Another twist of the ring, another overly penetrating stare. “You say that like I won’t kill you either way,” Roman said shrewdly, almost clinical in his delivery. “You’re dancin’ with the wrong crowd, no matter what you are, Red.”

Christ. This was too much. He’d never been a model prisoner, not as Robin and sure as shit not now. Roman clearly wanted to scare him, to make him simper and beg and plead, tell him he wasn’t the one he wanted, that he was just some poor kid caught up in something way bigger than himself. But _god,_ the way Roman went about it. Jason couldn’t help it; he started to smile, and he couldn’t seem to make himself stop. 

Roman stopped twisting his ring. His voice was as dry as the desert as he said, “What’s so fucking funny, Red?”

It’d be suicidal if Jason cared about anything anymore. “Oh, nothing much,” he said even as he looked Roman square in the eyes. He was grinning so hard that his lip threatened to start bleeding again. “Those are just some big words for a guy who ran screaming from a room like that. You that scared of a little wave, Sionis? That’s gotta be embarrassing, even for you.” 

Roman glanced over Jason’s shoulder and exchanged a silent look with Slade. Before Jason could begin to guess what they were thinking, Roman moved. His arm pulled back and swung out, high and tight— and socked him right in the gut. 

The armor dulled the impact but at this close a range and all of those rings, it couldn’t erase all of it. 

Jason pitched over and immediately began to wheeze. 

_Note to self,_ he thought weakly. _Roman isn’t all talk after all._

To make matters worse, a hand tangled in his hair and forced him to lift his head. More than a few strands parted from his scalp. Instinctive tears stung his eyes; Jason blinked them away, insanely thankful for the domino keeping these assholes from seeing them. He’d been through a hell of a lot worse than this before. They wouldn’t get that kind of satisfaction outta him for anything less than outright mutilation. 

But, as he forced himself to look Roman in the eye, something told him it wouldn’t be hard to escalate things to that point. 

“You’ve got a real smart mouth on you, Red. I’d like it if the rest of you hadn’t cost me a few million with your bullshit rampage.” The way Roman said it was sharp, matter of fact. Nearly bored even as he tightened his grip and forced Jason’s head back another notch. “What are we gonna do about that, hmm? Got any more smartass ideas to share with the class?”

Jason’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. Every inch of him ached to snap back with a witty response—call it a stress-reaction, or maybe just habit—but another set of hands landed on his body, forcing him to hold his tongue while he reassessed. 

They were Slade’s hands, naturally. Just another reminder of how hemmed in he was: crazy at his front and well-armed brutality at his back. For some reason though, the reminder didn’t drive up his sense of anxiety that much higher. Slade’s hands were heavy, pressing down on his shoulders in a way that shouldn’t have been reassuring but somehow was. Slade was a wildcard in this situation. His thumbs dug into the muscle, kneading at it, the sweet ache penetrating his body armor as if it wasn’t there to begin with. There was no way they could talk with Roman this close, no way to exchange a message without giving them both away. The semi-threatening touch was as much as they could get away with. 

Jason hoped he wasn’t misinterpreting things when he took it to say, _don’t worry, I’ve got your back._ He had a feeling he wasn’t; Slade had always had a fondness for Robins that he never bothered to hide. He’d fight against them, beat them black and blue, but at the end of the day, he liked them too much to put a bullet in their heads. 

With any luck, that would extend to keeping Roman from doing it instead. 

Of course, it was probably risky to hedge his continued survival on Slade’s good will. Keeping docile would be smarter, watching his mouth while he assessed the situation and waited for an opportunity to present itself. Roman was a talker; you could see it in the way he walked, in how he held himself. He’d let his guard down eventually. It could be a waiting game. Jason had played them before. 

Roman drifted closer. “Cat got your tongue, Red?” he prodded, resting his hands on his hips. He tilted his head up, looking towards Slade. “I scared him stupid, didn’t I?”

Jason’s hackles rose. His eyes narrowed. “Maybe I’ve got a secret and I don’t wanna tell the whole world,” he said, grinding his back teeth together. Waiting games were smart, weren’t they? So fucking smart, but definitely not the only way to find an opening. “Why don’t you come a little closer? I'll make it real good for you, you’ll see.” A little chaos would work just as well.

“I’d really advise against it,” Slade said in a bored voice. 

Roman snorted. “But he’s got a secret,” he said, bending at the waist until he was eye-to-eye with Jason. “You can’t tell me you’re not _curious—”_

And Jason _spat._

Time seemed to stand still as that globule of saliva arced through the air. Jason curled his lips into a smirk when it struck the dark, gnarled plane of Roman’s cheek. “Darn it,” Jason chuckled, using the chance this was to dislocate a thumb and yank at the bindings around his wrist. “I was aiming for one of those stupid eye holes.”

A lot of things happened in the span of only a few seconds. If asked, Jason wouldn’t be able to say who moved first, who did what. He registered a blur of orange out of the corner of his eye before he found himself doubled over his chair, pain blossoming like a mushroom cloud in his stomach. His hand stalled its valiant escape, but only for a moment. Jason channeled the pain, forced it to the side, and grabbed for the nearest thing within reach which just so happened to be one of the knives strapped to Deathstroke’s hip. He tore it from its sheath and flung it at Black Mask— 

Only for his wrist to be seized in a grip stronger than iron. 

The blade fell from his fingers and clattered loudly against the cement floor. Jason yanked harshly, threw himself against the ropes as hard as he could, but Roman just drew back his other hand and sent a fist flying towards his face. More pain erupted against his cheek, the salty, metallic taste of blood filling his mouth in an instant. 

In the back of his mind, in a place far, far removed from the pain and fear and anger, Jason congratulated himself. He’d been right about those rings. Roman might as well have clocked him with knuckle dusters for the damage that one strike dealt him. 

Jason sagged against the back of the chair, too stunned to fight as Slade grabbed his freed wrist from Roman. He let out a choked groan when the man forced his thumb back into its socket too, like a courtesy move all its own. Roman took a few steps closer and rested his foot on the fallen knife. “I think I figured out what to do with this uppity bitch,” the man said evenly, only marginally out of breath. 

Slade looked away from Jason to take in his benefactor. “Oh?” The fucker wasn’t winded at all.

Roman loomed a little closer, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the spit off his face. “Oh yeah.” He swung out a leg and kicked the side of the chair. Jason let out a yelp as the entire thing toppled over. Slade had the common sense to let go of his wrist at least, but having a hand free didn’t help him much as he struck the floor hard. His shoulder took the brunt of the impact. Pain raced up his arm. The sharp kind, the kind that meant something deeper than a bruise. Jason sucked in a breath of air and just barely heard through the ringing in his ears as Roman told Slade, “Open up his mouth. Let’s see how much he likes it.”

Jason froze. 

“Oh, _fuck_ no,” he slurred, blood dripping down his chin. He lifted his eyes to meet Deathstroke’s and swallowed reflexively. 

Slade just stared down at him with something that looked like pity. _You brought this on yourself, boy._ Jason fought him with everything he had. Like hell was he just going to roll over and take this shit— but Slade was a supersoldier, and if the man wanted you to open your mouth, you damn well opened it. His fingers dug into Jason’s jaw like tiny iron wedges, assaulting the pressure points behind his jawbone until he had no choice but to open it as wide as it could go. A rough hand grabbed him by the hair to drag his face closer. Roman loomed over Jason. A skull couldn’t smile but Jason swore that fucker wore a grin. 

Jason fought the impulse to close his eyes. His heart hammered in his chest like a drum. 

Bruce sure as shit didn’t give them training for situations like this.

His mind went white like tv static when Roman swayed into view and spat right inside his open mouth. 

He’d known it was coming. Hell, anyone with half a brain cell could tell it was going to happen, only something like that wasn’t just one of those things you could easily shrug off, as it turned out. 

“Close his mouth,” Roman ordered, voice husky-low as he ran his fingers through Jason’s tangled hair. “Make him swallow.”

Slade sighed as he removed his fingers and forced Jason’s mouth shut. “You’re a pretty sick bastard, Sionis.” His hand was big enough to cover Jason’s mouth and nose with no issue. The casualness of it all, like they were just talking about the fucking weather as Jason _swallowed—_

Never in his life had he been so clearly put in his place. 

Slade let go of him when he began to shiver. “There,” he said as he stood up and dusted off his hands. “Now what?”

“Now? Now we beat the shit outta him,” Roman returned, sinking down into a crouch at Jason’s side. As if he thought Jason would get lonely without it, he grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled hard. “How does that sound to you, Red? You got more of that attitude to show me or are you gonna just…”

Jason cracked open an eye, face hot, breath short. Off to the side, Slade lazily asked, “What is it? Something interesting?”

The hand yanking at Jason’s hair loosened slightly. Roman gave a throaty laugh. “Interesting? Depends on your definition. Surprising is more my word of choice,” Roman chuckled. He looked over at Slade. “The bitch is hard.”

Wait. What?

Jason looked down and immediately tried to cross his legs. Son of a bitch. The asshole was right. He twisted his head away and considered smacking his face into the cement—maybe it would knock him out and he’d forget this ever happened—when a hand dove between his legs and yanked them apart. “Oh, no you don’t,” Roman practically sang, forcing Jason’s thighs open as far as they could go. “No, no, _no,_ you don’t get to call it quits right when shit gets interesting.” Jason let out a lungful of air when a palm cupped his dick and gave it a tight squeeze. “You got a way about you that gives me _ideas,_ kid. Hey, Wilson, get over here and give me a hand, would ya? Making the fucking Red Hood my bitch— Christ, it’s not every day I get a treat like this dumped into my lap. Who woulda thought today was my lucky day?”

Jason was almost too terrified to look in Deathstroke’s direction. Almost being the operative word, of course. Sweat dotted his forehead, the grit and dirt from the floor sticking to his skin as he turned his cheek and looked up at the man in question. A soft whimper formed in his throat as Roman kept working him, grip too tight then not tight enough, impossible to predict and even harder to ignore. 

“I’m not a rapist, Sionis,” Slade said flatly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “This is tasteless, even for you.”

“Tasteless, huh?” Roman palmed Jason’s dick and stared at the man pointedly when it pulled yet another embarrassingly loud sound from him. “That sound like a man who isn’t enjoying himself?” he asked, sending Jason spiraling down another waterfall of mortification. He snorted and turned his attention back to Jason. “Just look at this fucking slut. Got hard from me spitting in his whore mouth. You like being tied up and handled like the cheap fuck you are, darling? You know, you’re not so scary now. Not when I’ve got you like this—” 

He punctuated it with a harsh squeeze. Jason arched and choked out a curse that carried no weight at all. Of all the nights not to wear a cup...

Roman gripped Jason by the hair and jerked his head until he looked up at Slade. “But if he really needs to hear it, let’s give him some peace of mind. Hell, I'll even make the kid a deal: Why don’t you tell him how much you want to suck him off, Red?” the man crooned against his ear. “If you do a good job... Heh. I'll let things slide. How's that sound? You suck him off and I don't put a bullet in your pretty little head.” 

Jason managed a weak huff. It turned into a breathy moan when the grip on his hair grew tighter. “And what if he still says no?” Jason sniped, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. It fucking figured that this shit-show of a situation would turn into something like this. He bet Dick never had luck this bad. “Sounds like an awful lot riding on him playing along. You gonna throw money at him until he changes his mind?”

Roman snorted. “As if anyone would have to be convinced. Just look at that mouth of yours. If I put you in a skirt and tossed you on the corner, I’d have half of Gotham paying _me_ for the chance to take that mouth for a spin. But if you’re that worried…” 

The pressure grew worse, Roman’s fingers curling harshly against his trapped length. The man plastered his chest along the line of Jason’s spine, forcing him to support their combined weight. “I suggest you ask him _real_ nice. Maybe throw in a ‘please, sir, may I have some more?’ You’re a creative guy, Red. I’ve seen it firsthand. Use your imagination. Make me proud.” 

Despite his best efforts to do the exact opposite, Jason found himself looking up at Slade with tears forming in his eyes. Fucking hell, this was mortifying. If he could have a list of who he’d rather have looking at him like this right now, he’d— Well, it wouldn’t be much of a fucking list since he couldn’t think of a single name, but Slade? Slade fucking Wilson of all people wouldn’t have crossed his mind in a thousand fucking years. Something told him that Roman wasn't kidding though. The man had a sick sense of humor. It was entirely possible he _would_ let things go if he went along with this, but it was all contingent on Slade allowing it. Would he? 

Just how much did Slade like Robins?

“I’m waiting, pumpkin,” Roman prompted, giving another rough squeeze with more gusto than Jason was prepared to take. “Let’s hear it.”

Jason felt his rope get that much shorter. He licked at his lips, wondering how short it’d have to be before he couldn’t use it to hang himself. He met the mercenary’s gaze and… and Slade stared at him, no judgement to be found, no expressions of pity or malice to be seen. It hit Jason somewhere in the gut when he realized that Slade didn’t _actually_ want to hurt him. The man had a code, even if it wasn’t the most morally upright one to begin with. Jason hadn’t done anything to Slade bad enough to put him on his shit-list. If the man thought he didn’t want this—want _any_ of this—he probably would put a stop to it. 

And… maybe it was fucked to think, but he didn’t actually _hate_ the direction the evening had taken so far. The situation was less than ideal, but it sure as shit wasn't the worst thing he'd been forced to do to keep his skin intact. Slade had to know that. His arousal was plain to see, almost embarrassingly obvious— But you know what? Who the hell could judge him? So what if Jason got off on this? Anyone who’d lived through the shit he’d seen would have a few odd kinks, right? A few crossed wires. 

He schooled his expression and gave Slade a challenging sort of look. When it came down to it—like _really_ came down to it—getting the both of them to lower their guards would afford him the best window of opportunity a guy could ask for. If that involved getting them off… 

Jason swallowed harshly as his mouth flooded with saliva. 

Roman, the absolute asshole, took his silence as an invitation to grope him again. Jason closed his eyes and let out a choked groan. “Don’t go daydreaming on me, Red.”

“Fuck,” Jason spat, curling in on himself. “You always this persistent about getting another guy off? Maybe _you_ should suck his dick. Just a thought.”

Above his head, Slade gave a poorly hidden laugh that he only partially tried to disguise as a cough. Roman’s face was frozen, skull that it was, but his eyes positively burned. He let go of Jason and clicked his tongue with disappointment. “You just don’t get it, do you, Red?” He reached out again. Jason anticipated another grope and tried to squirm away. Instead, Roman went for his belt, hauling him back before going for his fly. 

“Woah, woah! What the hell do you think you're doing?!” Jason’s shoulders protested every single second of struggle as Roman unceremoniously rolled him onto his side, yanking his pants down to his thighs. His plain grey (and mildly wet) briefs elicited a snort from Roman and the almost maidenly aversion of the eyes from Slade before they too wound up around his thighs. His traitorous cock was _still_ somehow hard, and it immediately flattened to his belly, stiff and damp around the tip. 

“Pick him up,” Roman ordered, letting Jason go to stand up. He began to remove his rings, storing them away in his trouser pocket as he moved towards the tipped chair. Jason tried to keep the man in view, to see where his psychotic whims were taking him this time, but Slade refused to give him that. The mercenary grabbed him beneath the arms, hefting him easily from the floor. Jason tried to struggle, to kick, but his pants and briefs had him pretty effectively hobbled. Jason’s face burned as Slade tried to look him in the eye. His cock twitched and started to drip. 

“Just kill me, Wilson,” Jason said under his breath, sweat prickling around his temples. “This is so fucking mortifying.”

“But you like it,” Slade said matter-of-factly. “If you hated it I’d be more inclined to put you out of your misery.”

Jason tried to snap something but didn’t manage to before Slade yanked him flush to his chest, the hard, unmistakable sensation of a dick prodding him in the lower back. White noise flooded Jason’s brain. His knees went a little weak and he couldn’t quite restrain the weak little moan forming in the back of his throat. The bristly brush of Slade’s facial hair met his ear once more. 

“Keep the smart remarks to yourself and maybe you’ll get something sweeter on your tongue instead. Just a bit of helpful advice, Robin.”

It was just a whisper, barely there but still somehow the only thing Jason could hear as his heartbeat began to pound in his ears. His knees shook, his entire body burning hot like an ember. Slade turned his head and Jason vaguely heard him say something. A hand cupped his chin from behind and twisted his head to the left. He looked at Roman sitting on the metal chair he’d woken up on. If a skull could look smug, this was it. 

“What?” Jason muttered, feeling he’d missed something crucial just now. 

“How cute,” Roman chuckled, all gravel and sandpaper. “The bitch is already that far gone. Bring him here.”

Jason’s eyes widened. Slade dropped his chin and Jason tried to twist around to look at him, desperate for some kind of hint as to what he’d missed, but Slade was already moving, frog-walking him closer to the massively homicidal variable in the room further from the pile of weapons in the corner. A renewed wave of embarrassment rolled over him from the indignity of it all; every jerking step they took together made his cock bounce awkwardly, and with both men so close to him, so close and _staring,_ he couldn’t help but grow harder, not softer, as they watched. 

Roman let out an appreciative hum when Jason was parked in front of him, propped up by Slade like some kind of good on display for his approval. The man’s hands settled on his waist, trailing down his armor before alighting on bare skin. Jason tried not to flinch at the touch. “Sensitive,” Roman remarked aloofly. He squeezed Jason’s hips, then fondled his tense thighs. Roman’s hands were big but not nearly big enough to encircle them. He completely ignored Jason’s cock. Just acted like it wasn’t even there. 

Somehow that got to Jason more than the fondling did. 

“You ever see a bitch get more worked up the longer you ignore him, Wilson?” Roman asked as Jason’s cock began to purple at the head. He looked past Jason completely, like he wasn’t even there. “You’d think someone so desperate wouldn’t raise such a fuss about doing as he was told.”

Jason tipped his head back, resting it on Slade’s shoulder as the man shrugged, his armored, enormous body dragging against him so beautifully that it hurt. “I’ve got a feeling he hasn’t been given this much attention before.” Slade turned his head a little, Jason shuddering at the rasp of his beard against his temple. “He probably doesn’t know what to do with it, so he acts out.”

“Is that true, Red?” Jason jolted at finally being addressed directly. He snapped his eyes on Black Mask, trembling a little when the man fixed him with an intense stare. Those calloused hands kept fondling his thighs, his knuckles skimming so close to Jason’s sack that it wasn’t fair. “Do you just want some attention?”

Jason didn’t trust himself to speak. Roman sighed and grabbed his cock with such a put upon vibe that Jason didn’t know whether to gasp or be offended. “You know what? I tried to be nice. I tried to get you to say it yourself, but I guess you’re the kinda bitch that needs to be broken before you admit that you’re a little cockslut. Wilson?”

Slade sighed, hot and loud, against Jason’s ear. “Fine,” he said. Roman let go of Jason’s cock, eliciting a sharp whine, but then they were moving again, Slade twisting Jason around and pushing him down. Jason landed on Roman’s lap and a pair of deceptively strong arms wound around his middle, dragging him against the man’s chest. The scent of cigar smoke and expensive Italian cologne filled his senses, dulling his reactions as he tried to struggle away. 

“Oh, no you don’t,” that gravel-rasp of a voice growled in his ear. Roman stepped between Jason’s legs, pinning his trousers to the floor. Trapped around his boots as they were, the combination immobilized him better than ropes ever could. Even if he did somehow manage to escape Roman’s lap, he’d topple onto his face the moment he tried to stand up. “I tried to be nice to you, Red. Tried to get you to say what you clearly want, but you don’t want that, do you? You want me to make you scream it, don’t you? Work you so hard that you can’t help but admit how hungry you are for it.”

Jason tried for a growl only to have it turn into an embarrassingly high-pitched cry as Roman grabbed his cock again, stroking this time. But not with his whole hand—that probably would’ve made him come, embarrassing as it was to think about—but with the tips of his fingers, just trailing them up and down his shaft. Roman’s other arm pulled him tighter to his chest. The insistent grind of his cock against his ass was an impossible to ignore tease. 

“Wilson.”

Jason forced himself to open his eyes. He looked forward, watching Slade pull himself out of his armored leggings. “I’m charging extra for this, Sionis,” the man said boredly, dragging his huge hand along an equally huge dick. 

“What, getting the bitch’s mouth isn’t payment enough?” Roman snorted, bouncing Jason on his knee. 

“Blowjobs don’t pay the rent.” Slade came closer, close enough for Jason to smell his aftershave and sweat. “At least, not this side of it.” He held himself by the shaft, barely six inches from Jason’s face. His single eye stared at Jason expectantly. _Come on, Robin. I don’t have all night._

“How much more we talking?” Roman asked, still trailing his fingers along Jason, occasionally dipping lower, fondling his balls, the crease of his thigh. 

Slade came another inch closer. Jason’s mouth flooded with saliva. “Ten grand.”

Roman whistled, rubbing the pad of his finger against Jason’s asshole. Jason choked on his spit, failing to swallow before a strand rolled past his lips and down his chin. “What if I let you do whatever you want with him?” he offered. “Surely that would get me a discount.”

It was getting harder and harder to keep his mouth shut, and not for the reason he would have liked. Jason was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to string together a coherent sentence right now if he tried. Slade’s cock was _right there._ It was practically kissing him. Slade looked down at him fondly. “Unless you can make him give me a blowjob _worth_ ten grand, then I don’t think so.” He chuckled, all whiskey and sin. “Something tells me he isn’t good for it.”

“You hear that, Red?” Roman bounced him again, jostling him hard enough to tip him the last scant inch separating him from Slade’s dick. It brushed his cheek, leaving a wet smear that momentarily whited out his thoughts. The arm around his middle released to grab him by the hair, redirecting him until his lips were pursed against the head of his cock. “He thinks that mouth of yours isn’t worth ten grand. You gonna prove him wrong? You gonna save daddy some money and give him a show?” 

But he didn’t wait for an answer from Jason; he just forced Jason forward, his lips parting without a fight. 

Like something out of a cheesy eighties movie, everything seemed to screech like a stopped record the moment that dick touched his tongue. Slade probably said something; Roman might have replied. Jason, however, couldn’t understand any of it, couldn’t even tell if this was real or just some hyper-realistic wet dream brought about by a concussion a la Deathstroke. Something like panic was blotting out the potential for sound, numbing his brain until words and thoughts didn’t make sense anymore. Salt and sweat and musk layered his tongue, an oddly heady combination he’d never experienced before. 

Roman’s hand loosened in his hair, turning into a caress. Jason’s ears burned. Slade rocked forward—

In hindsight, that had been a mistake. Slade was big. Really big, and Jason had next to no experience sucking cock. His throat immediately began to flutter. His lips were stretched wide with only the head in his mouth. There had to be seven or more inches still waiting to get inside. Jason stared up at Slade with wide, panicked eyes. What if he threw up? What if he puked all over Deathstroke the Terminator’s dick in front of Roman fucking Sionis? 

Slade stared down at him, the quirk of his brow giving off the distinct impression that he knew where Jason’s thoughts were going. He pulled out slightly, resting the head of his cock against Jason’s trembling lips. The mercenary was so… so fucking big like this, looming over him, blocking out the entire room. Slade reached out with a hand and took Jason under the chin, rubbing his calloused fingers against his throat, massaging, coaxing. _Relax,_ that touch seemed to say. _I’ll take it from here._

Which was easier thought than done, but Jason had lived his entire childhood defying common sense and human tolerances. His heartbeat was the loudest thing in the room, so he set to counting it, fixating on the steady thump, thump, thump until it became almost meditative. Slade kept massaging his throat, pressing at his lips, slipping past them to rest on his tongue. The eye contact helped, horrifyingly enough. Jason got the sense that he could read Slade’s intentions better that way, eliminating the possibility for surprises. 

It still couldn’t completely negate the fact that he was sucking Slade Wilson’s supersoldier cock though. 

Slade was _big._ Terrifyingly big. The head of his cock made its way in and so much more had yet to come close to his lips. Jason kept counting heartbeats, kept looking into Slade’s eye. His throat began to flutter— and he ignored it, tightening his bound hands into fists and breathing rapidly through his nose. Saliva had already begun to pool in the bottom of his mouth. It trickled over his bottom lip, rolling down his chin in thick rivulets. Slade stared at him steadily, eye glinting, hopefully aroused. His hips gave shallow thrusts that tested every ounce of Jason’s control. No vomit yet though. Score. 

Through it all, Roman kept himself occupied the best he could. He fondled Jason through his shirt, kneading his chest like breasts and purring in his ear about how good they felt in his hands. “I’ve only ever seen you at a distance, Red. It’s a shame; I might have been nicer if I’d know what a good rack you had on you.” 

Jason nearly choked when a hand gripped his cock again. “What about you, Wilson? You a tit-man or an ass-man?”

Slade, who had managed to get about half of his dick in Jason’s mouth, barely looked away from Jason. A trickle of sweat had worked its way down his temple from the force of his concentration. “I’m a competency-man, Sionis. Doesn’t matter what the package looks like so long as it comes at me with everything its got.”

The way he looked at Jason as he said that was nearly too much for him to take. He had given it his all during that fight, hadn’t he? Hell, he’d taken down most of them before Slade felt the need to jump in himself. Had he… Had he managed to impress Slade during that brief fight? It’d ended with his head slammed into the concrete, but he’d done damage. He’d made Slade work for it… Jason’s cheeks burned, his eyes stinging. He braced himself and took even more of Slade into his mouth, stuffing his throat with as much as he could handle without spewing chunks over them both. 

And Slade, composed, controlled Slade, groaned. He fucking _groaned._ His grip on Jason’s chin tightened and he stopped holding himself back. In the blink of an eye Jason had his lips kissing the base of Slade’s cock, his nose buried in silver, wiry hair that stung and tickled in equal measure. Jason’s throat couldn’t flutter like this, stuffed full as it was, so he stopped breathing. He let himself be used. 

Roman laughed as Slade fucked his throat. He kept groping and squeezing, rocking his own erection against Jason’s ass as if he thought he’d be forgotten if he didn’t remind him constantly that it was there. More saliva coated Jason’s chin. Tears began to roll down his cheeks freely. Every thrust Slade made pulled a loud, painful sort of gagging sound out of him. It was getting too hard to breathe. Dizzy and light-headed, Jason let out a weak groan. Slade swore above his head and stopped all at once, and then Jason found himself dealing with a new kind of problem — Namely, how to get rid of a mouthful of cum without accidentally inhaling it instead. 

The taste wasn’t great. The texture wasn’t any better. The _amount,_ though, proved to be the worst of its list of traits. Drowning on Slade’s cum sounded infinitely more embarrassing than puking on him had, so Jason immediately started to thrash and pull away. He was already struggling to keep it from spilling out of his mouth as it was, and swallowing it wasn’t on the table. Not if he could help it, and he could. 

But Slade went willingly enough, extracting his dick without a fight. Better yet, his breath was actually somewhat labored and a sheen of sweat visibly coated his exposed skin. Jason allowed himself a scant moment to be proud of himself for that. Only one though. Slade had deposited what felt like half a gallon of cum in his mouth, and spitting it out was definitely a much more pressing matter. 

Before he could spit, however, a hand locked itself firmly over his mouth and chin. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Roman crooned against his ear. “Swallow it all. Don’t be rude.”

Jason wished he could spit it all over Roman’s fancy Italian suit pants. Logic though told him that trying would only result in the mess getting all over his face and Roman punching his lights out for spitting up on his hand. Closing his eyes, Jason swallowed. Roman chuckled in his ear. “Good boy. Now, say thank you for the meal.”

Roman dropped his hand, peeling away from Jason’s mouth to wrap it loosely around his throat. The other kept up its torment on his cock, slow and teasing, not satisfying at all. Jason blinked up at Slade. The man just smiled, clearly waiting to hear his gratitude for coming in his mouth like the asshole he was. 

The hand on his throat tightened. Roman growled, “What did I say about being rude, Red? Say thank you or you’ll be saying ‘sorry’ with a crushed trachea.”

Jason wheezed. What a fucking asshole. “Th-Thank you,” he choked, fighting between looking at Slade and closing his eyes. A fucking asshole with one hand on his throat and the other still on his dick. Both tightened. Jason’s eyes rolled back in his head. 

“What do you think, Wilson?” The hand on his dick moved a little faster, Jason fucking into the too-tight grip with everything he had. “Was it worth ten grand?”

“Hmm. He gets points for enthusiasm.” A pause. “Sure.”

Roman laughed in Jason’s ear. “You hear that? Your cock-hungry mouth just saved me ten fucking grand.” Jason groaned, black spots fluttering across his vision. The pleasure was too much. He couldn’t fucking think. “You’re more fun than I thought, Red. You’ve got me thinkin’ all sorts of terrible things. I could make you one of the greats if you joined my family. This isn’t the most typical interview, but it sure as shit has been compelling.”

“Are you planning to kill him or get him off, Sionis?” 

Jason cracked open an eye, lips moving but no sound coming out. His oxygen-starved brain couldn’t concentrate on anything beyond the hand working him off. So close. Just a little bit more… 

“It’s a real sign of the unenlightened that you think those two things are mutually exclusive,” Roman snorted. The stiff, unyielding texture of his masked face dented Jason’s cheek. “This bitch doesn’t even care anymore what I do, do you? So long as I keep this up—” He gave Jason’s cock a punishing twist. “—you’d let me choke the life from you happily. Big bitch like you, no one’s ever put you in your place before. You’ve got promise, Red. More than I’ve seen in a long, long time.”

The hand on Jason’s throat squeezed tight, then let go without warning. “Come. _Now.”_

Lungs filling, vision stark white, Jason lost all sense and simply did as he was told. The pleasure was debilitating, horrifying, and for a few solid seconds Jason felt like he was dying all over again. His body went liquid and his head felt too heavy to support with that hand gone. He sagged heavily against Roman’s chest before strong hands lifted him and guided him onto the floor. 

“I think you broke him,” came a voice that filtered through the haze. Low, rumbly, clipped and judgemental. Slade. 

“Good.” That was Roman. Jason turned towards his voice blindly. “Now, open that pretty whore mouth of yours for daddy.”

Jason didn’t overthink things. He just opened his mouth and held still.

Roman tasted different than Slade. More bitter, less thick. He didn’t come as much but Jason wrote that up to him not being a supersoldier. Most made it inside his mouth, but a decent amount landed on his cheek, his chin, his neck. The wet, furtive sounds of Roman jerking himself—milking himself—was the only sound Jason could hear above his ragged breathing. Despite taking a fraction of the time Slade had, the moment lingered ten times as long. Jason ran his tongue along his bottom lip. He swallowed even though it hurt. 

“Jesus fuck,” Roman hissed, a sharp sound that softened with a laugh towards the end. “Do I know how to pick ‘em or what?”

Cracking open an eye, Jason tried to glare at the man hovering over him. Roman’s dick was still out, softening before his very eyes. He wasn’t as big as Slade either, but it sure as shit didn’t feel like it. He’d done more damage to Jason’s throat with a single hand than Slade did with his fucking monster cock, and that definitely said something. The man tucked himself back inside his trousers. Still chuckling, he looked at Jason again only to catch him watching. 

Jason’s eyes widened when Roman came closer, sinking into a loose crouch. He winced as Roman touched his hair again. Instead of yanking though, Roman just caressed. “What do you say now, Red?” came that whiskey-gravel voice expectantly. 

A breath caught in Jason’s ruined throat. Shivers broke out along his body as Roman tenderly carded through his hair. “Th… Thank… you.” 

It earned him a low, pleased laugh. “Good boy. Stay out of my business, Red,” Roman whispered, patting him sharply on the cheek as he rose to his feet. He stared down at Jason, zipped his fly, and chuckled as he finished, “I won’t be so nice next time.” He shifted his attention to Slade. “Help the bitch home, would you? I’ve got some other things that need my attention tonight.”

Slade crossed his arms and shrugged. “And my pay?”

“Jesus, man, enjoy the afterglow, would you?” Roman waved a hand at Slade and sighed. “I’ll have it wired to your account. Scout’s honor.” 

With that said and his clothing back in order, Black Mask strolled towards the exit. If the man had lips, he’d be whistling. Jason tracked his movements through bleary eyes. Now that the afterglow had faded, he found it easier to think, to remember where he was, who he was with, and what he’d just let Roman do to him. His carefully laid plans weren’t quite up in flames from this development, but it’d be stupid to say they weren’t impacted at all. He had some planning to do once he got home. Pieces to move. New dynamics to test. 

“If you thought you’d somehow get away during all of that, you’re stupider than you look, boy.” 

Ah. Yeah. He still wasn’t alone, was he? Jason tore his eyes away from the exit and turned them upwards. Slade was in the midst of sinking into a crouch by his side. Roman must be paying him well to make him actually help at a time like this. But then again, Slade’s hand was unexpectedly gentle as it grabbed the rope binding Jason’s wrists. The other went for a knife. Maybe this was just more of that Deathstroke/ex-Robin privilege. 

Jason blinked tiredly and stopped trying to make sense of it. He couldn’t stop sucking on his tongue, the heat and weight and _taste_ still present and alive despite all of the above being long gone. “Says the one who still let me suck his fucking dick,” he rasped painfully, letting out a quiet groan as the blade cut through the ropes. The sudden blood flow to his fingertips stung almost as much as his bruised throat did. 

That managed to pull something like a chuckle from the mercenary. “Never said I was a good man, now did I? You’ve learned a lot of new tricks since I last saw you, Robin.” Slade knelt down and dragged Jason into a slumped sitting position. He helped untangle his pants from his boots until Jason batted him away. 

“I’m _not_ Robin,” Jason grit, the sudden flare of anger more sobering than a bucketful of ice water. Once his pants were covering the majority of him again, Slade took over once more. He grabbed Jason’s hands and began to carefully massage his wrists, every touch professional, detached, and clinical. But only for a minute. Jason yanked his hands away from Slade and rubbed at the abused skin himself, then carefully tested the hot ache ringing his throat. He scrubbed his sleeve over his filthy face until it hurt. “I thought you kept up with B’s bullshit better than that.”

“Oh, I do,” Slade murmured, rolling back onto his haunches. He cocked his head and gave Jason an easy, knowing smile. “But you bird boys never do really outgrow the pixie shorts. Though, I will say you’ve done a better job of trying than Grayson ever did.” Slade’s gaze slid over to the corner where Jason’s gear had been tossed upon arrival. “They’ve got you playing with some real dangerous toys, don’t they?”

Jason set about fixing his pants as best he could. Roman, that fucker. He’d just about ripped the waistband through. “Oh yeah? And who’re ‘they?’” There was a telling wetness along his belly too. There wasn’t much to be done about come stains right now, so he put it from his mind. He’d change once he was away from here.

Without saying a word, Slade rose to his feet in one sinuous motion. Jason paused to watch as he walked over to the pile of armor and weaponry and pulled out the kukri from the selection. Jason swallowed and forced his expression to remain neutral. “I’ve been around a long time, boy—”

“I’ll say. You’re fucking ancient.”

Slade’s eyes darted from the blade to Jason, not rising to the bait in the slightest. “I recognize the blades that nearly do me in. You’re running with a dangerous crowd. Didn’t know the Demon’s Head was the type to share.” The leer in the mercenary’s voice was for show. They both knew what he meant. 

“He isn’t,” Jason said, short and clipped. Ergo, none of Slade’s fucking business. He gave up on his pants. The belt would keep them up until he could get back to a safehouse. Getting out now was more important than getting out fully dressed and ready for combat. Jason stood up and winced. His entire body ached. Roman definitely liked to play rough. “You done being curious? I’ve got shit to do tonight now that I know I’m not dying again.”

Slade tossed the kukri into the air, catching it expertly by the blade. He held it extended, an offering Jason didn’t think twice about accepting. “Keep talking like that and I’ll just wonder all the more, Robin.”

Jason scoffed and dragged the blade out of Slade’s hand. He hoped it would cut him, but Slade was ready for it. He let go of the curved blade before it could slice through the armor on his glove. “It’s Red Hood now,” he growled, slamming the blade back into its sheath before going for his helmet. Once it was back on his head, he felt… not better, but safer. The voice modulation pitched his voice expressionless as he said, “I suggest you start using it. Robin’s fucking dead.”

Slade leaned against the wall and watched him strap on his guns, his blades. He smiled knowingly when Jason packed on the pocket-sized explosives that remained. “Last I saw, Robin’s still very much alive.”

Jason tightened his hand around the grip of a gun. “Not for much longer,” he muttered. 

“Oh?” He sounded tickled pink by the notion. The fucker. 

Jason stayed silent. He rose to his feet and stalked towards the exit, leaving Slade by the wall. 

“You sure know how to make an impression, _Red Hood,”_ Slade called out to his back. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

Beneath the helmet, Jason’s face burned. He lifted a hand and flipped Slade off without looking at him. The man’s booming laugh followed him all the way home. 

**Author's Note:**

> man im really living up to my name arent i. hope yall enjoyed it! if so, definitely check me out on twitter @tdcloud_writes where i talk about jason on a semi-regular basis and if you wanna see more of my writing, check out my website tdcloudofficial.com! until next time!


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